


Little Murder on the Strip

by Mossley



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24062215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mossley/pseuds/Mossley
Summary: Things aren't what they initially seem to be during a murder investigation at a convention, especially once the team realizes the killer is still in the building. GSR, mini-casefile. Set after “A Bullet Runs Through It.”
Relationships: Gil Grissom/Sara Sidle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Technically, this isn't one of the Christmas-challenge fics I've been clearing off my hard drive. The opening and closing lines come from an ancient Unbound challenge. This was my first idea for it, but I realized it would be way too long for that challenge; I came up with “All Cooped Up” for that instead. But I mentioned the idea to Cincoflex, who found it amusing, so I told her I'd write it up.  
> A/N II: Again, still no beta. If you see anything amiss, feel free to point it out. I'll fix it later.  
> Disclaimer: This space left blank intentionally.

* * *

“That's something you don't see every day," Grissom noted.

Next to him, Sara Sidle’s only reaction to his statement was to lift a lone eyebrow as she scanned the crowd before them. Well over two hundred people milled around on the exhibition floor, not counting the various police officers blocking the exits. Besides the officers, women made up the majority of the throng.

And, between them, she estimated they had six hundred pairs of starched petticoats, probably one hundred sunbonnets and at least an acre of gingham. Of the ones not wearing a bonnet or hat of some sort, most had their hair pulled back in a severe style, although she noted there were a surprising number of grown women walking around with their hair braided in pigtails. Just the thought of all those strained corsets made her cringe.

“So, you’re saying we should be grateful for small favors?” she ventured, turning to face him.

He cocked his head at her in a curious manner, and she fought back her smile; _he_ would find this intriguing. He loved a mystery to solve, especially one in found in a unique setting. Grissom would relish the slightly bizarre nature of the scene. She also knew he was going to be ecstatic once he noticed the covered wagon in the rear of the room, knowing they weren't going to leave until he had a chance to check it out. She just hoped he wouldn't want to watch another Roy Rogers movie when they got home.

“I told you we should have grabbed breakfast first. We're going to be clocking up the overtime working this case,” she said, slipping her camera free and taking crowd shots.

“There are times I think Days save _special_ cases for us to cover for them,” Grissom agreed, reading the banners visible over certain areas of the room.

They both turned at the sound of Brass’ greeting, sharing a confused look in the process. Normal procedure was for the police to call in CSI support, but it was clear he was just signing in to the scene.

“What’s going on, Brass?” Grissom asked as he joined them, the captain’s eyes widening as he took in the ocean of old-fashioned dresses.

Brass simply shrugged. “I was told there was a murder here. No one told me it was at an Amish convention.”

“These aren’t Amish,” Grissom said.

“They don’t wear gingham,” Sara added.

“That’s calico, not gingham,” he corrected her, again cocking his head as they both stared at him. “Gingham is a checked pattern; calico refers to an inexpensive cotton fabric that usually has a print on it.”

“How do you know that?” she challenged with a smile.

“How do you _not_ know that?” Grissom responded lightly. “It's our job to know things.”

“Yeah? So tell me why there are two detectives on this case,” Sara said. She pointed across the hall, and the others watched as Sofia Curtis made her way through the crowd to join them. It was soon clear she wasn't working the case, though, as she wasn't armed or wearing her vest. She also held her right hand away from her body in a determined manner.

“You just happen to be at a historical convention?” Grissom asked in a friendly manner. “Your father would be so proud.”

She gave him an odd look. “I don't know about that. My dad is a history teacher. We went to stuff like this all the time when I was a kid,” she explained to the others. “I was supposed to be meeting my parents here later for Dad's birthday. I came in the side door, looked in a exhibit room and saw someone on the ground. I checked for a pulse but didn't touch the body otherwise.”

“Did you try CPR?” Sara asked, surprising Grissom by snapping several photos of the detective. His surprise grew when Sofia automatically assumed a position that allowed her the best photos.

“No. There was gray matter visible. I had security shut down all the exits immediately, and then I called it in. I've been making sure no one else goes near the scene.”

“So, you're our prime suspect. Your _mother_ will be so proud,” Sara continued, putting down the camera and opening her case.

Grissom stared in mild disbelief as Sara started processing Sofia's hand. He knew things had been tense between them. The detective had broken protocol by coming to see him during the investigation into Officer Bell's shooting and Sara had to basically chase her out of his office. His confusion grew as he noted the two women were relaxed.

Shrugging off the mystery of women, he used the time to further examine the room. It was clear the lobby area was a staging ground. There were photo displays spread out across the room, and signs indicating which of the other rooms held which events. His face lit up when he saw what appeared to be an authentic Conestoga wagon in a far corner.

“All done,” Sara said, tossing her some wipes.

“Thanks. The body's in here,” she said, leading the way across the room and down a small hallway. An officer stood in front of one of the doors, stepping aside with a nod as they entered. Sofia stayed in the hallway.

“You did give yourself enough time to ditch the evidence, right?” Sara said lightly.

“Hey, give me some credit! It's not my first homicide.”

Catching Grissom's confused look, Sofia laughed. “Relax. I was way out of line when I went to see you during the investigation, but I was too stressed to realize it. I needed someone to snap me back to reality.”

“We're cool,” Sara said, giving him a nod as she went to photograph the hallway.

Grissom shrugged. If they were joking, then he would take their word everything was fine.

He pulled his flashlight out and ran it around the room before turning it on their victim. The tables in here were covered in an assortment of cookware, mainly cast iron, but some that appeared to be tin and copper. The victim was on the ground behind one of the rear tables. Unlike most of the convention guests, she was dressed in modern clothes – navy dress slacks and a colorful top like the ones Sara preferred.

“I don't think Doc's going to have a hard time determining cause of death,” Sara said, as she moved to photograph the victim. “She was hit in the back of the head with something hard.”

“Gee, I wonder what the killer used?” Brass said dryly, waving to stacks of heavy cast iron skillets on the table by the victim.

“There's no shortage of potential weapons,” Grissom agreed.

“Do we know who she is?” Sara called out to Sofia.

“While I was waiting for you guys, I talked to the organizer – Miss Martha Prewitt Jefferson. She went to fetch the list of vendors for this room. Someone was still setting up,” she said, pointing out some partially-emptied boxes.

“So this is a meeting of the 'Little House on the Prairie Appreciation Society of the Great American Desert,'” Brass said, reading a leaflet on the table. “Sofia, no offense, but I never took you for a fan.”

She flashed him a quick smile as she leaned in the doorway. “What can I say? Take old, rancid fat, mix it with ashes from a fireplace and you get soap.”

“Science nerd,” Sara said jokingly.

“Hey, if you spent all your summer vacations crammed into an RV, going to various historical sites, you'd find your entertainment where you could, too.”

They paused in their examination at a sharp intake of breath. “Ah, Miss Jefferson,” Sofia said. “This is Detective Jim Brass. He'll be investigating. This is Gil Grissom and Sara Sidle from the Crime Lab.”

“Oh, gracious!”

Sara's eyebrow rose again as she took in Martha. Her dress was a soft, floral material, but all the lace and trim did little to make it look more flattering. Even without her laced up boots, she would have easily reached six-foot-three, and appeared to be nearly as wide across the shoulders. Her wire-frame glasses rested on a large nose perched over a prominent square jaw, her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun.

In short, Martha was unfortunate enough to look like a villain from a Bugs Bunny cartoon in a very old-fashioned dress.

Sara discreetly snapped Martha's photo as she went around the room, taking overall shots of the crime scene. Whoever had killed their victim had used a great deal of force, and Martha apparently had the strength to do it.

“Do you recognize the victim, Ms. Jefferson?” Brass asked.

“It's 'Miss' Jefferson, sir,” she corrected primly in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. “In answer to your question, I know the unfortunate deceased. That is Professor Stacy Adams, I believe from the greater Milwaukee area. She was scheduled as a speaker this afternoon. Oh, gracious.”

“Do you know anyone who might have had a grudge against her,” Brass asked.

“Oh, dear. I am afraid that list would be rather extensive. The professor was not popular with other members of our society.”

“Any special reason why?”

“I suppose one could say the professor was more interested in reality than in popular perceptions,” Martha said stiffly.

“What? People who thought the TV show was real,” Sara asked.

“At this level, very few of our members are under any delusions about the verity of the television show based somewhat loosely on Mrs. Wilder's esteemed books.”

Brass rolled his eyes as he tried to take notes.

“What about people who think the books are accurate?” Sofia asked.

“Who thinks that?” Sara asked. “They're clearly labeled as children's fiction.”

Grissom paused in his examination of the stacks of cast iron to give her a curious look.

“I am a female who grew up in America while the show as on, Grissom. I have read the books,” she said with a small smirk.

“Same here,” Sofia added.

Martha gave a pointed stare. “There are some people who believe the books are autobiographical. While the books were based on her life, there are incidents mentioned in the books that never happened in real life. Likewise, there are many incidents which did happen to Mrs. Wilder that never made it into her published works.”

“Would any of those incidents provoke someone to bash her head in?” Grissom asked.

Martha paled and swallowed several times. “Must you leave the poor woman there? Can't you cover her up?”

“We can't touch the body until the coroner's office releases it,” Grissom explained kindly. “About those incidents?”

“Oh, I don't know. The members of our society tend to know that the books weren't a true autobiography. They know that Mr. Ingalls once moved the family in the middle of the night to escape a bill collector, for example, or that Mrs. Wilder took liberties with ages.”

“Her husband was ten years older than her, right?” Sofia asked.

“Yes, and they married when she was still a teen. It was common at the time and place, but by the time she wrote her novels, it was a touchy subject.”

“What about the fact the books were written as a form of anti-New Deal propaganda?” Grissom continued.

“What?” Sara stopped her meticulous photographing of cast iron pots to look up with a surprised expression. “No way!”

“Oh, that is true,” Martha said. “The program was very unpopular at the time. Less than half of the people eligible even signed up. Farmers, especially, did not approve of it. They had plenty of work available, and they saw no reason to pay people not to work. Also, no one had helped them in various natural disasters, and they pulled themselves through.”

“Not to mention the New Deal policies screwed over a lot of farmers,” Sofia added.

“I need to borrow some history books,” Sara muttered as she returned to her photography.

“So, would someone kill her over this?” Brass asked.

“Oh, I don't think so. It's not too much of a surprise.” Martha chose her next words carefully. “Professor Adams was more interested in facts which call into question aspects of Mrs. Wilder's accomplishments.”

Brass let out a gruff chuckle. “So what are you saying? That America’s sweetheart was a bitch in real life?”

In apparent defiance of all natural laws, Martha straightened her back even more, scowling over her wire-frame glasses at him. “We most certainly are not!”

The detective had an impatient expression. “Look, pal, you might be a queen, fine, but you ain’t Victoria. Drop the accent, okay? It's giving me a headache.”

Martha gave him a shocked stare for a moment before giving her head a quick shake. A hand reached up to remove the wig, revealing a mass of curly, red hair.

“Oh, hey, sorry about that. Get caught up in character, ya know? Real name's Paulie DeMarco,” he said in a thick Bronx accent. His voice was still amazingly high-pitched in stark contrast to his size. He started to take off one of his boots, revealing an old tube sock covering an exceedingly hairy leg. “Damn, these heels are a real pain in the keister, if you'll pardon my French, ladies.”

“Don't take that off,” Grissom called out. “You'll contaminate our scene.”

“Sorry about that. For both of us. Fellows, I'm serious. You gotta gal you're special on, don't ever ask her to wear these things. Am I right, ladies, or am I right? It's like I told my Trixie, if you want to dress up for me, less is better.”

Sara bit her lip to stop from laughing at Grissom's expression.

“So what's the deal? You can't sell if you aren't a lady or something?” Brass said, attempting to regain control of the questioning.

“That's about it. I been doing this gig for years. Started out part-time, just for fun at first. But I started making enough to do it all the time. It wasn't a problem when it was all mail order or over the Internet, but when the shows started getting big? You might have noticed there's a lot of little old ladies out there. No one wanted to deal with someone who looked or sounded like me. Thought I was a fraud,” Paulie said. “Ain't it disgusting the way people judge ya on your looks?”

“It is,” Grissom said, a hint of a smile on his lips. “What exactly is your 'gig'?”

“I sell historical stuff from the pioneer days, mainly. Run a small magazine. Organize shows. I love all this.”

“You do?” Brass asked with a hint of humor.

“Hey, I got six baby sisters. I musta read those books to them a hundred times growing up. Trust me, you grow up in a cramped tenement with an extended family, and you'd love a story about fresh air, wide-open prairies and room to stretch without poking somebody in the belly.”

“Yeah, I bet you needed a bit of room to stretch,” Brass said.

“I'm the runt. My four brothers are all bigger than me,” he chuckled. “Seriously, reading about those times was fascinating to me. Started reading more about it, too. Pioneer diaries, stuff by Ole Edvart Rølvaag.”

“ _Giants in the Earth_ ,” Sofia said, tilting her head as she recalled the information. “Bit of a slog to read, if I remember.”

“Guy wrote it in Norwegian first. It was translated to English later. Their literary, whatchamacallit, conventions are different. Good book, though. It was wild to think of a place so isolated it drove people insane, dontcha know?”

“Prairie madness,” Grissom said. “The first pioneers on the prairies suffered it. Modern psychologists think it was a mix of cabin fever and depression brought on by lack of human contact.”

“Sounds like something you'd love,” Brass quipped and this time Sara did smile at Grissom.

Paulie let out a grunt of relief as he shifted himself, flashing Sara an embarrassed grin when he noticed her looking. “Dem girdles are a bitch, ain't they?”

“I wouldn't know.”

His smiled widened as he gave her an appraising look. “No, I bet you don't. Say, I don't suppose you get to date someone you meet on the job, do you?”

“'Fraid not.”

“Figures,” he sighed, catching sight of Sofia in the doorway and flashing her a big grin.

“Sorry, I don't date guys with nicer dresses than mine.”

“It's just the one dress,” he cajoled.

“Can you wait to flirt until we're done investigating the dead body?” Brass asked with an amused tone.

“Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry,” Paulie said, a blush covering his entire face. “I ain't never seen a body before. Well, not like that.”

The others exchanged looks. “You've seen bodies before, Mr. DeMarco? When?” Grissom asked.

“Call me Paulie, pal. Uh, is it a body if it ain't got no body left? I mean, I was a pipe fitter before I started this gig. We were replacing a big section of sewer and there were these skeleton bits and stuff. My first thought was someone had flushed some old Halloween decorations.”

Brass gave a small shrug as he continued questioning. “What, exactly, did our victim do that was so upsetting to the others?”

“Do you know about Rose?” Sara and Sofia nodded, while Grissom and Brass shook their heads. “Laura's daughter was Rose Wilder Lane. Nowadays, not too many people know her except she was one of the founders of the Libertarian Party. But back in the day, she was hot stuff.”

“In what way?” Brass asked.

“She was a writer. World famous, in fact. The advances on her magazine interviews and stories were fetching the equivalent of high six figures in today's money, and that was during the Great Depression. She was friends with all kinds of bigwigs – kings, presidents, actors, captains of industry, as they say.”

“Okay,” Brass said, waving his hand to encourage him to get to the point.

“So, anyway, Rose wrote to all these people. All the time. And her handwriting wasn't that great, so she typed her letters. And she kept carbon copies. So, she had copies of the full conversations. And she kept every piece of correspondence she had. When she died, her attic was crammed with trunks full of them.”

“A historian's dream,” Sofia said with a small smile.

“Yeah, well, there was so much stuff it took years after she died before anyone started to go through it and organize it and stuff. And then a researcher found Rose's correspondence with her mom,” Paulie said, “and what he found was a bit of a shock.”

“Rose wrote the books,” Sofia stated simply. “Haven't people suspected that for years?”

Paulie refused to commit, shaking his head from side to side as he pondered his answer. “People always knew Rose edited the books. There's no question of that. The rough drafts Laura donated to a library and the finished draft were way too different.”

“And no publisher would touch her autobiography even at the height of her fame,” Sofia added. “It's missing all the detail and emotional connections that made the children's books so popular.”

“It's pretty boring. 'We went here. We ate dinner there. We met this family.' It's nothing like the books,” he agreed. “But the letters showed proof that Laura was supplying very rough work, and Rose was generating the final product.”

“What's the line between editing and ghostwriting?” Sofia asked rhetorically. “And wasn't ghostwriting considered sort of … undesirable back then?”

“Yeah, Rose never would have admitted to it. She did a lot of it for magazines, but it wasn't something the general public knew. It would have ruined her reputation as a serious writer.”

“And you think someone would kill the professor over that?” Brass asked.

Paulie shrugged. “Hey, people get touchy about their fandoms. There's this lady neurology professor in California who writes some whacked out fan fiction. I don't think I'd like to challenge her feelings on it, ya know what I mean?”

“The word 'fan' is short for fanatic,” Grissom said, never looking up as he moved to examine the next pile of cast iron.

“Is that so?” he asked, turning to Sara.

“Yep,” she said, smirking briefly at Grissom as she moved to his side.

“You're one sharp cookie,” Paulie said with another appreciative smile. He then turned suddenly to Grissom. “Hey, do you know where that comes from? 'Cause, I gotta tell ya, a sharp cookie sounds dangerous, ya know? A little kid could get cut on that.”

“Paulie, focus,” Brass said. “Was anyone making threats against the professor?”

“Not that I know about. It was more people didn't like her. She was kind of a know-it-all, not to speak ill of the dead and such,” he said, frowning after a bit. “But, well, there are some weirdos out there, take it too far and stuff.”

“Hi, guys! Wow, big crowd here today,” Dave said as he entered the room with his assistant and gurney. It only took him a moment to start work. “Cause of death seems pretty obvious, but we'll have to make sure nothing else happened to her. Hmm, she's fresh. Time of death was less than an hour ago. I'd say less than thirty minutes.”

Grissom's head snapped up quickly, and he turned to Sofia. “On your way in, did you pass anyone going out?”

“No, and security shut the building down immediately,” she said. “I found the body within minutes of her death.”

“The next closest exit that isn't a fire escape is the main entry,” Brass said. “No way someone walked that far through that crowd.”

“The killer is still in here,” Grissom stated.

_TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

“David, this is a scoop-and-run. Get the body out of here, now! I don't want the killer to have a chance to tamper with the evidence. Don't wash the body until I get there. Officer, escort them outside when they're ready to go,” Grissom ordered, immediately taking control of the situation.

Brass walked to an isolated corner of the room as he pulled his cell phone out, requesting extra officers and CSI personnel.

“Whoa,” Paulie muttered.

Sara grabbed her camera, rapidly snapping shots as David prepared the body. “Pull her hair away from the wound,” she said, kneeling to get a better look. She took a close-up before glancing over her shoulder to Grissom. “Whatever hit her had a flat edge, not too thick, I'd say.”

“Whoa.”

“The rim of a skillet?” Grissom asked.

“Whoa.”

Sara shook her head. “Straight, not curved. Maybe the handle?”

“Whoa!”

“None of these handles are long enough. Part of the skillet would have made contact with the victim's head,” he said.

“Whoa!”

“Snap out of it, Paulie. This isn't a rodeo,” Brass barked, putting his phone away. “Who had access to this room?”

He stood stunned for a minute. “Anyone. It was a vendor display area. Sales weren't supposed to start until after lunch, but people always come in and check things out,” he said, reaching to his beaded purse to pull out a folded piece of paper. “Here's the vendor list you wanted. The professor, uh, that's her table she's behind. She restores cast iron and sells it. Or she did. Whoa.”

“Think – did you see anyone hanging around her or in here earlier?” Brass asked. “Anything suspicious?”

“I don't know. I was over with the book vendors in room 3, on the other side of the hall. This guy from Delaware was upset with where his table was, getting all pissy with nice, ol' Mrs. Geisinger, like it was her fault or something. I'd been in there at least twenty minutes before Blondie there told me there was a body.”

Sofia gave the others a subtle nod of conformation. Paulie hadn't been anywhere near the scene at the time of the murder, but they still had an abundance of suspects.

“There's, there's a killer still here?” Paulie asked in an odd tone.

“Don't worry. The police will keep you safe,” Sara told him somewhat kindly.

“Yeah. Like someone is going to hit me on the back of the head. Did you look out there?” he yelled. “Most of those folks is ladies, and a lot of them ain't that strong. And there's a killer in there with them! Do something!”

“Keep it down, Paulie,” Sofia said urgently. “We don't want to start a panic, or give the killer any idea what we know.”

“The killer is trying to hide,” Grissom said, his explanation slow and calm. “He, or she, picked an isolated area to attack without witnesses. They attacked from behind so the victim wouldn't see and couldn't try to defend themselves. Those are the acts of a coward. That person isn't likely to draw attention to themselves with the police watching. They're going to try to pass themselves off as just another convention goer and walk out after talking to the police. We need to make sure that doesn't happen.”

“Damn straight,” Paulie muttered, paling as Dave and his assistant rushed the body out of the room, the officer trotting beside them. “What, what do ya want me to do? Ain't nobody out there that could hurt me.”

“You don't do anything,” Brass stated firmly, pointing his finger in warning. “Let us handle this. Sofia was right – the last thing we need is to cause a panic. More people would get hurt in the rush to get out of here, and it would give the killer a perfect cover to escape. You understand me, Paulie? Don't do anything stupid.”

“I'm responsible!” he snapped. “This show is my thing. I organized it. Those people – they're here 'cause of me.”

“Paulie, it's okay,” Sara told him. “You didn't know a killer would show up. We don't even know that the killing had anything to do with the show. It could be a random killing. It could be someone who followed the victim here from Milwaukee so not to draw attention to themselves. Don't be so hard on yourself.”

“Easy for you to say, ya know what I mean?” He let his shoulders slump and turned around in defeat, looking very much like an overgrown, pouting child in a floral dress.

“So, where would our killer go?” Brass asked in a low voice.

“There are public bathrooms out there, but not a lot. I doubt the killer would have time to wash up before someone else walked into the bathroom,” Sofia said. “What about cast off?”

“Just one blow,” Sara said as she shook her head. “But it was bad blow. There might be tissue on the killer. Definitely on the weapon.”

“What's the weapon?” Grissom asked to himself, again running his flashlight over the tables of cookware. “Everything in here that's made of cast iron has a circular shape. The tin or copper would deform too easily under that much force.”

Brass turned to Paulie. “And you didn't hear anyone grousing about the professor? Someone new, someone you hadn't seen at the shows before?”

“Nothing more than the usual stuff. She comes to all these shows.”

“Don't jump the gun, Jim,” Grissom said. “She's unpopular. She's dead. It doesn't mean the two facts are related.”

“She could have been a convenient victim, alone in an isolated room?” Brass suggested.

“Or the killer wanted to steal something in here,” Sofia added, “and she was in the way.”

“We don't have enough evidence yet,” Grissom said, examining the area where the body had been.

“What about the victim? What was she a professor of and what was her talk going to be about?” Sara asked as she collected blood and tissue samples from the floor.

Paulie scratched the back of his head as he tried to concentrate. “She was an, uh, artho, apolo … uh, studies people?”

“Anthropologist?” Sara suggested.

“That's it!”

“And she was going to talk about whether Rose wrote the books or not?” Brass asked.

“No, actually she was gonna talk about gate marks,” he said, staring as the others gave him blank looks. He finally pointed to the table. “Cast iron. When they poured the iron, there were extra bits from the opening of the mold. They'd knock that extra bit off after the cast iron cooled, and it left a slit or gash on the metal. Those are gate marks. That's how you know if a piece is really old and valuable.”

“Is cast iron valuable enough to kill over?” Grissom asked, standing up from his examination. “There's a piece missing here.”

Sara joined him, looking at the partially-emptied boxes on the floor. “These pans were packed in protective foam. There's a piece of foam that doesn't have a piece of iron that matches it.”

Paulie gave them a shrug. “It's popular hobby, but it's a hunka metal. It lasts forever if you take care of it. Almost none of it is rare. A thirteen-inch Griswold skillet sold for about eight grand not long ago, but that's a hot company and they only made a few skillets that size. It didn't sell well, people thought it was bad luck with the thirteen and stuff. Most of it doesn't go for anywhere near that price.”

“This wasn't a skillet,” Sara said, turning to him with an inquisitive expression. “The void in the foam is roughly rectangular, longer than it is wide, with three circular indentations on top?”

“Are they about the size of a pancake?”

“Yeah,” Sara said in surprise. “I'd say exactly so.”

“It's a pancake griddle. Those three circles are on hinges. You'd pour the batter into them, and when the first side was done, you'd flip it over onto the flat rectangular thingy to finish cooking.”

“How much would something like that be worth to a collector?” Grissom asked.

“Not a lot, really. Maybe a hundred bucks if it was in really great shape. It's kinda stupid way to cook pancakes. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to flip a pancake, ya know what I mean?” he asked with a good-natured grunt. “Even I can do it.”

“So, did the killer take the weapon with them, or were they a big fan of pancakes?” Sara asked.

“At least it's not a cereal killer,” Brass deadpanned. “Hey, give me a break! I didn't say anything about the irony of getting killed while surrounded by her own cast iron.”

“You just did,” Sara said, holding her hands as if she was taking the griddle out of its protective foam. “The vic's wound could have been made by the flat edge of this griddle.”

“Well, it's probably ruined if they did,” Paulie said. “Cast iron is durable, but it's brittle. They coulda broken a hinge doing that. It'd be worthless. Welding cast iron is a real bitch to do, pardon my language, ladies. It wouldn't be worth the effort to fix something like that.”

“Either the killer didn't care about the value, or they didn't know cast iron is brittle,” Grissom said, pausing a moment. “Or they panicked and used the first thing they found.”

“The killer attacked the victim from behind. She probably didn't know anyone was there,” Brass said.

“Or she didn't care,” Sofia said. “Maybe she knew who it was.”

“We have no way to know that yet, but we do know the killer took the griddle with them,” Sara said. “We've looked in all the boxes. It's not with the other items on the tables. They had no way of knowing Sofia was going to walk in here within minutes, so they didn't know they had to get rid of it immediately. Instead, they risked taking a piece of cast iron covered in blood into a crowd. They must have wanted it for some reason.”

“All the fire exits have alarms and the basement door is locked. At least that's what they told me when we started to set up. I didn't try any of them, though,” Paulie offered, his expression brightening as a thought came to him. “There's a cooking demonstration over by the Conestoga wagon. Somebody coulda ditched a griddle over there. It would look like it belonged to the display, right?”

“Paulie, you actually can think straight if you put your mind to it,” Brass said, smiling when the bigger man grinned bashfully.

“We need to find the killer,” Grissom stated simply. “Sara, turn around. You're the same height as the professor. Her wound was here and angled like this,” he said, pointing to the back of her head and pantomiming a blow, trying to line it up to match the victim's injuries.

“Crouch down. Okay, reach up with your arms,” Sofia said. “There.”

“Well, the killer is about your height, Sofia,” Brass said.

“Just because I'm the prime suspect doesn't mean I'm the prime suspect,” she teased him. “But you still get to grill me.”

“Oh, be still my heart. As sexy as that sounds, I'd rather do something productive,” he said.

“Well, I can't do anything,” she pointed out. “I found the body. That makes me a suspect, so no way I can get involved.”

“You can keep a watch on the crowd,” Sara said as she packed up her kit. “If you see anyone acting suspiciously, or trying to sneak out, let Brass or one of the officers know. Extra eyes are always a good thing to have.”

Grissom surveyed the room before turning to the others. “When the guys get here, have them finish processing this room. The longer we wait, the more chance the killer has to dispose of the evidence. We need to see if anyone out there has blood on their hands.”

“Or on their pancakes,” Sara added as she picked up her case.

_TBC_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"You want to start with the wagon, don't you?" Sara asked as she unsuccessfully kept herself from smirking.

"That is where the cooking display is set up. Besides, it is a Conestoga," Grissom said eagerly. "Not authentic to the Little House series, obviously, but it's not something you see everyday."

"Not even in Vegas," she sighed as they went to the rear of the exhibition floor. All along the way, people muttered as they passed, some giving them curious looks, others watching them with annoyance. After a few moments, she noticed his furtive glances in her direction and it didn't take her long to figure out why. "Okay, why is it obvious it doesn't belong."

Grissom grinned at her happily. "Conestoga wagons were mainly used in the eighteenth century east of the Mississippi River. Their weight made them impractical for pioneers heading westward. Very few were ever used out here," he said, his glee at anything to do with Westerns evident.

"But it's the image people have of wagons," she said.

"Hollywood. They never get anything right," he said dismissively. "For an event like this, they should have a prairie schooner. Of course, there aren't many wagons left, so they might have had to go with what they had."

"You can ask Paulie later," she said, knowing Grissom would love to grill their talkative convention owner after the case was finished.

"Oh, I plan to."

Setting her kit down, Sara pulled out her camera and snapped photos as she circled the wagon, taking care to photograph every piece of cookware around the fake fire. Grissom meanwhile ran his flashlight over the area, looking for the pancake griddle. It didn't take them long to find it, sitting under the wagon beneath some wooden buckets.

"There is something on it," Sara said as she wormed her way under the display. Taking a few photos, she carefully set the buckets aside before picking up the skillet. She wiggled her way out from under the wagon, keeping the griddle close to her body and off of the floor. Taking some forceps from her pocket, she lifted the foreign material lodged in a broken hinge. "Looks like hair and blood."

"Good job," he said, taking the forceps to bag and label the evidence.

Sara pulled out her fingerprinting supplies and began dusting the griddle. "I'll dust the buckets next. Old wood doesn't hold prints well, but maybe we'll get lucky."

"If nothing else, it's good for DNA," Grissom said.

"Damn. Looks like they wiped the griddle before ditching it," she muttered. "There are some partials, but most of it is too smudged to be any good."

Grissom smiled at her, using his light to point upwards. "The killer isn't too smart."

She followed his direction, shaking her head when she saw a bloody rag on top of the wagon's canvas top. After a minute of looking around, they borrowed a stepladder and Sara retrieved the rag, carefully bagging it.

From her vantage point, she spotted Paulie and Sofia talking with Brass near the entrance. The convention organizer had put his wig back on, and apparently 'Martha' was soothing irate guests and vendors. It was difficult to be certain, but it seemed 'Martha' was doing a good job calming people down as groups were less agitated as they walked away.

"I have this strong urge to track down Paulie's mom and send her a condolence card," she told Grissom as she watched.

"Why?" he asked, looking up from his examination of the water barrels on the wagon. "Because he wears a dress for his job?"

"She had eleven kids and he's the runt? Ouch."

"He's the runt of the brothers. And eleven is the minimum. Paulie specified six little sisters. He didn't rule out older sisters."

"Why? I don't get why anyone would put themselves through that."

"Childbirth?" Grissom asked, giving her a look that suddenly made Sara nervous. They were settling into their relationship nicely, but children had never been mentioned even in passing. It was way too early to even consider it. Given their ages and her family background, it wasn't something she thought he would even be interested in, but his expression had her confused.

"Eleven times," she said quickly. "That, uh, seems excessive."

He merely shrugged. "Some people really like kids."

"Yeah." Wistful; she was sure he was being wistful when talking about children. Deciding it was time to change the topic – she wasn't ready for this conversation, and she definitely wasn't going to have it on top of a stepladder surrounded by a group of gawking senior citizens in piggy tails – she nodded toward the front of the room. "How do you think Brass and Sofia are doing?"

"Well, it doesn't help that Sofia is technically a suspect, but they've both handled cases worse than this before," he said, looking confused when he saw her expression.

"I meant about the Bell shooting."

"It was an accident. They're both clear. These barrels have been empty for ages. The killer didn't get any water here to clean up with."

She gave her head a quick shake, frowning as she did so. He merely rolled his shoulders. "I'm not sure what else to say about it," he said. "You're better at that stuff."

The arrival of two CSIs from day shift distracted them briefly, and Grissom told them where they had left off in the room where the body had been found. He found Sara examining the crowd with a frown when he finished.

"What's wrong?"

"We're going to get DNA from the rag, but what are we going to compare it to? We can't very well take a sample from every single person here. Who knows how many of these people are even local. They'll be gone in a day or two."

"Let's hope Brass is having some luck narrowing down the list of potential suspects."

* * *

Watching the crowd, Sofia felt like swearing loudly. She understood exactly why she couldn't be helping, but logic didn't make it less frustrating. Worse, Brass had her babysitting Paulie, neither of the detectives convinced the convention organizer was going to keep his cool.

To her surprise, he easily slipped back into his Martha persona, and Martha was not a woman prone to flights of fancy or inappropriate behavior. Martha simply and calmly told complaining guests that an unfortunate event had occurred and everyone needed to stay put until the police finished their investigation. Sofia wasn't sure if it was Martha's calm but stern demeanor that worked, or if people were afraid to argue with someone so intimidating looking.

"How da hell do you gals stand on heels all day?" Paulie whispered out of the corner of his mouth. "I normally sit down a lot at these things, ya know what I mean? My footsies are killing me."

Despite her own irritation, Sofia had to fight back a laugh. "Did you really just say 'footsies'?"

"I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm angry. Give me a break," he said, straightening even more as an irate man approached them. "My dear Mr. Harris, I have already explained the situation to you in great detail. You may not leave. You will be told when you may. Kindly refrain from attempting to slip out of the premises, or I am afraid our dedicated law enforcement officers will find your behavior most suspicious."

"You do have your uses," Sofia chuckled as the man quickly melted back into the crowd.

"I am, what do they call it, a man of many talents," he said. "Say, about that smart cookie comment, do ya know what it means?"

"Word origins are more Grissom or Sara's department."

"They're a cute couple," Paulie stated simply.

"Oh, no! They're friends and they work together, but they aren't a couple," she said, moving to look at a stack of books and pamphlets that had caught her attention. She gave him a questioning look as she picked the top book up. "These are all written by one E.P. DeMarco."

"Hey, if your first name was Eustachio, you'd go by Paulie, too, especially in my ol' neighborhood," he said, deciding to drop the couple conversation. One advantage of his build was the ability to see over crowds, and Paulie had seen the guy rubbing his hand along the lady's arm as he helped her with some task. He might not have the brains of this group, but he knew there were friends, and then there were _friends_.

Sofia spent several moments flipping through a book on the history of treadle sewing machines. "These are actually well-written."

"I ain't dumb. I'm under-educated with a bad accent," he said petulantly.

"You can drop the accent for Martha. And you obviously taught yourself about history. You can use proper English when you set your mind to it. So, no, I'd say you aren't dumb," she said kindly. "You found a career you actually love, and that's no mean feat."

He gave her a sheepish grin. "So, you really can't date guys you meet, or is it just me? I know I ain't a catch in the looks department, but I'm a nice guy."

"Nice, huh? What about your Trixie?" she countered, giving him a sharp look.

"Aw, she dumped me," he said quietly, his hand waving to his dress. "She thinks I take this too far. Maybe I do, but the real money comes from the shows. She sure didn't mind the good life, let me tell you."

"Does this gig of yours pay that well?"

"I don't like to brag, but I'm gonna clear over a quarter of a million this year," he said.

"Dollars?" Sofia asked in surprise. "That buys a lot of dresses."

"Just the one. I tolda that before. And I only do it 'cause people get scared off by my real looks," Paulie said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. "But between you and me, I think I'm scarier like this, ya know what I mean?"

She ran her eyes over him in open amusement. "I do, Paulie, I really do."

* * *

Brass approached the area around the wagon tiredly, pulling out his notebook with a sigh. "Okay, some good news. There were some talks going on in the other rooms. They started before the murder took place, and the attendees had to register in advance for them. There were sign-up sheets and no one sneaked in after the talks started. Those people we can rule out as suspects. We'll get their statements and let them go."

"How many weren't in those talks?" Sara asked, packing her equipment back into her kit.

"About one hundred and twenty-seven," he said, "but that includes a tour group from one of the retirement homes. I don't think any of the eighty-and-older club swung a cast iron griddle hard enough to bash the professor's head in. There's a couple more in wheelchairs or on crutches."

"Hard to bash someone on the back of the head in that condition," she agreed.

"And we have a lot of kids who are too small to have done it. The realistic number of suspects is down to about three dozen."

"Well, the killer wiped down the griddle before trying to hide it, but they didn't do a great job. There's no water in any of the displays on the floor, so he didn't wash up out here," Sara said. "There wasn't any blood on the spigots in the bathrooms, and the police are checking the hands of everyone who wants to go in there."

"I'm getting officers to question anyone who was around the wagon display, see if anyone spotted someone carrying a bloody griddle around," Brass said. "We got the possible suspects rounded up and in an empty conference room for your inspection."

* * *

As the officers started herding people into various groups, either to get their statements or to be checked for physical evidence, a nervous tittering broke out in the crowd. While most people were complying with the police, a few were starting to get upset or scared. Sofia and Martha stayed by the front entrance, and once again, she was impressed by how easily the guests listened to a six-foot-three convention organizer in an ugly dress.

After a particularly nervous group let themselves be directed to a conference room, Sofia gave him a grin. "Have you ever considered a career in crowd control? Or wagon crossing?"

"You're making fun of me, ain't ya?"

"Yes, Martha, I am," she admitted.

"At least you're honest about it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, right? I know I ain't no Tom Haviland."

"I'm sorry. In all honesty, that dress isn't doing you any favors," Sofia told him, her laughter starting again despite her efforts to keep it in check. "And we arrested Haviland for murder, so don't compare yourself to him."

"Whatever."

"Hey, I am sorry," she said kindly. "But like I said, you're not dumb. Drop your accent, wear a decent suit, and people will be less intimidated by you. You don't need to be 'Martha' to be successful. And your 'footsies' will appreciate it."

"I tried that already. If I try to drop the accent as me, it slips in at weird places. Being in character, it's like acting. I can keep it down better that way. And I don't need no other job, thank you very much."

"No offense meant."

"Ah, none taken. Like I said, I know I'm a big galoot," he said, slipping back into Martha as a group came to ask what was going on. A calm, if somewhat grandiose, explanation followed, and the people let themselves be herded to another part of the exhibition center.

Sofia tensed when she noticed Paulie grinding his teeth in a most un-Martha like way. If he did lose his cool, at least she'd be able to easily tackle the top-heavy galoot in his ladies' boots.

"Mr. Harris! I must protest your most ungentlemanly behavior. You are vexing me, and I assure you, Mr. Harris, you do want to see me vexed," Martha said in a harsh growl, raising her beaded purse in warning. "Return to the main hall at once, or I shall be forced to be very cross with you!"

Mr. Harris paled visibly, nearly tripping over his feet as he bolted to the rear of the room, colliding with a pair of officers who grabbed his arms.

Sofia started chuckling, holding her sides as she tried to control it. "I, uh, I'm sorry. It's that display just reminded me of a, uh, _lady_ , here in Las Vegas named Heather Kessler. I'd think she'd love to have you work for her."

"I tol' you I don't want no other job, 'specially one that gets you laughing at me like that."

"I'm sorry, Paulie, I really am, but, it's – you just have to know her to understand why this is so funny."

Fighting for self-control, Sofia couldn't help but wonder what was the worst mental image – Paulie dressed as Martha, or Martha dressed as a dominatrix.

_TBC_


	4. Chapter 4

Grissom and Sara rounded up their collected evidence and helped Davis from day shift load it into one of the Denalis. After sending him back to the lab to start processing the evidence, Grissom pointed out a deli on the corner and returned briefly with a pair of sodas. He then led her to some crates in the alleyway where they took a quick break while the police finished sorting out those who needed further attention.

“If I had known you were a fan of the _Little House_ books, I would have gotten us tickets to this,” he said quietly, giving her a small smile. “The murder sort of ruins the occasion, but it's not something I would have minded doing.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I said I read the books, Gil, not that I liked them.”

“Really?” he asked in evident confusion. “They're supposed to be classics.”

Sara took a long sip of soda as she pondered her answer. “I didn't read them until after I was in foster care.”

“You were older than the target audience. It was way below your reading level,” Grissom stated, frowning as she dropped her head. The books weren't complicated; she was an advanced reader. It was an obvious answer, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something.

Sensing his confusion, she gave him a shrug. “The only part I could relate to was being afraid of the whippings.”

“Oh,” he said lowly, shifting his crate closer to hers until their knees touched.

“Yeah, a happy, helping family was not a situation I understood. It seemed too fake to me. From my experience, a family wouldn't have everyone pitching in with a cheerful mood,” she said with a bitter smile. “It was so unlike my childhood, and I was still learning how screwed up my family life was at the time.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that.”

“I know.” She gave his knee a nudge in thanks. Sara paused to take another long sip from her drink. Talking about her family wasn't something she enjoyed, even though Grissom was always so supportive. Still, it was a way of bridging another conversation.

“Gil, I'm not sure if I know what a normal family life is like now. It's not like we see them a lot with this job. It's not an area I have a lot of self-confidence in.” Sara gave him a sad look. “I'm not sure it's an area I'll ever be comfortable with.”

“I can only imagine,” Grissom said, reaching out after a moment to squeeze her hand. “And I do understand.”

Looking into his eyes, Sara thought he knew exactly what she was trying to say. “Is that okay?”

“Completely.”

Again, she sensed an underlying wistfulness in Grissom. He wasn't pushing, but she wondered if it was going to be an issue in the future. If a family was important to him, could she do it? This was totally new territory for her.

“To tell you the truth, it's something I've never been in a position to have to consider before,” she blurted out suddenly, once again hating her tendency to over-talk around him.

“Are you in a position to now?”

Sara watched him carefully, and he regarded her with equal attention. Had she misread the situation? Or did he fear she wasn't as committed to the relationship?

“I, uh, I don't know. Are we … is this something we'll want to discuss one day?”

“I hope so.” Grissom fiddled with his drink before looking up at her. “But only if you want to. You make me happy. You don't have to do anything else for me if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Thanks,” she said simply, hoping it was that simple.

“But Sara – you're nothing like your parents. You'd never hurt a child. I have zero doubts you'd do well if you ever gave yourself a chance,” he said, a hint of a smile forming. “You're too much of a perfectionist to do otherwise.”

She flashed him a grin. “Smart ass.”

Getting off his crate, he held his hand out to help her up. He then nodded to the exhibition center. “Want to go inside and catch a killer?”

“You are such a sweet talker!”

* * *

“I don't think Martha considers rocking on her tiptoes to be ladylike behavior,” Sofia said quietly, smiling as her companion stopped his motion. “How are your footsies holding out?”

“Enjoy it while ya can. I'm gettin' out of this getup as soon as you guys close this down,” Paulie groused. “Hey, ya can keep the books when ya go. You're a fan and all, being here on your day off and stuff.”

“My dad is the history buff. Teacher, actually. We were going to meet here for his birthday. I was hoping he'd see something he'd like so I could get his Christmas present picked out.”

“Does he have a, whatchamacallit, special area of interest?”

“He's a real Civil War buff, so a bit earlier than what you have here.”

“What type of stuff does he like?” Paulie asked, puffing his chest out proudly. “I know people who know people.”

“Find me a Beecher's Bible I can afford, and I'll take you up on that date offer,” she joked. “And it's not a book.”

“Nope, a fifty-two caliber breech loading Sharps rifle don't qualify as no book. Called a Beecher's Bible 'cause Reverend Henry Ward Beecher said rifles would help the slaves more than a Bible. There were rumors the other abolitionists were shippin' em in boxes labeled Bibles,” Paulie said, leaning over to whisper in her ear. “But there's no proof they ever did send them disguised that way.”

“I'm impressed,” she admitted, somewhat surprised by the depth of his historical knowledge. A disturbing thought that her dad would love to meet Paulie kept rearing up in her mind.

“Those ain't cheap. Too many collectors want 'em. You're looking at around thirty grand at least for one in working order.”

Sofia nodded. “Which is why I said I'd go out with you if you get one I could afford.”

The look he gave her made her cautious. “Well, if you don't care about, ya know, actually shooting it, that's a different story. 'Cause I know a guy with a collection he's getting rid of. He's got one, but the firing action is shot. No pun intended, as they say.”

“What does he want for it?”

He rolled his shoulders and shrugged. “He don't need the money; made a fortune in real estate. He's got cancer bad, maybe a year left. His wife hates his gun collection, so he'd let it go cheap if it went to someone who had a, whatchamacallit, a real appreciation of the historical significance. And he owes me a favor.”

“Let me know what he says when you get a hold of him.”

Martha gave her a most unladylike look. “We can find out together. Boulder City ain't too far away, is it?”

“No, it's not,” she drew out slowly, wondering how the hell she got herself into this situation. She was a detective and a former CSI, and she walked right into this. The dress; it was the damn dress he wore. It made her underestimate him. There was no way to take a hulking man seriously while he was in a dress covered in an orange rosebud pattern.

“I wanna go to a tea house. Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but I read all these things about having tea and stuff, and I wanna try it. Cucumber sandwiches and little lace doilies and scones and cookies, the whole shebang. There's somewhere in Vegas that serves it, ain't there?”

Sofia stared for a moment, finally realizing he was serious, and she had said she'd do it. What the hell – she'd stop off and get her service pistol before they went. “The tea service at the Bellagio is supposed to be good.”

“My treat.”

“Paulie, let's get one thing clear – I'm going with Paulie, not with Martha.”

He considered this for a moment before smiling. “Okay, but ya gotta admit, Martha'd be a hoot in a place like that.”

“That's what I'm afraid of.”

* * *

Setting up her supplies on a table placed in the front of the conference room, Sara paused to examine the crowd milling around. The vast majority were women. Nearly every one of them wore an old-fashioned dress with a high, starched collar. Most of them had their hair pulled back into a severe bun, with a part sharp enough to cut paper. More than a few wore glasses perched on the end of their noses over which they watched the CSIs distastefully. There was an occasional softening touch– a bit of lace on a collar or cuff here, a colorful breastpin there – but the overall impression was of stern, quiet disapproval.

“This looks like a convention for librarians from hell,” she muttered to Grissom when he joined her.

“My mother is a college librarian,” he pointed out.

Sara ran her eyes over the crowd again, letting the corner of her mouth curl up. “I rest my case.”

“I don't think that's fair.”

“Don't tell me you don't recognize any of those looks out there.”

“I concede your point,” he said after a moment of watching the women.

Before they could start, a commotion caused both of them to look up. Brass led the way, with Martha manhandling a short, nervous man to the table. Sofia followed, keeping enough distance to technically not be involved, but close enough to intervene if necessary.

“Mr. Harris, I did warn you quite clearly what would happen if you continued your unacceptable behavior,” Martha growled dangerously. “Your actions are most suspicious, and I must insist you explain yourself to these investigators.”

“Thank you, Miss Jefferson,” Brass said, placing careful emphasis on the title. “But let us handle this from here.”

“I shall be most interested in knowing why Mr. Harris insisted on attempting to leave the facilities despite knowing full well it was not allowed.” Martha stepped back when Brass gave a little push, but her handbag swung in slow, dangerous circles.

“You can't do this to me. This is police brutality,” Harris said, sputtering angrily.

“I ain't a cop, dumbass. And ya ain't seen no brutality – not yet.”

More than a few people in the crowd did a double take, but Martha stood primly still. Sofia, for her part, turned around until she got her expression under control.

“Mr. Harris is it?” Sara asked, putting on gloves and picking up her camera. “Did you hurt yourself recently?”

“She can't take my photograph. I didn't give her permission to do that. She doesn't have a warrant!”

“I don't need a warrant, Mr. Harris. You're in a public establishment. You have no expectation of privacy. Anyone can take your photo here,” she said calmly. “And you didn't answer my question.”

“I don't have to!”

“No, you don't,” Grissom said, giving him a humorless smile. “The evidence is doing enough talking for you.”

“What evidence? I have no idea what you're talking about!”

Sara took a pair of forceps and quickly snatched a tiny piece of material from his collar.

“What's that? What did you take?”

“This? This looks like a sample of brain tissue,” she said, holding out the bit of bloody material as she quickly bagged it.

“Oh, gracious!” Martha murmured, rocking on her heels.

“I'm guessing this belongs to our murder victim in the vendor display area, unless you've been in contact with other dead bodies?” Sara continued. “DNA will tell us all we need to know.”

“I, that's, what,” he sputtered, turning to Brass to complain but the sight of Martha's glare caused him to shut up. “I have no idea who put that on me.”

“Do you mind if I ask where your handkerchief is? It's missing from your suit pocket.” Grissom took a swab and ran it over Harris' hand. A drop of phenolphthalein turned the cotton tip a bright pink. “You wiped the blood off, but the evidence is still there.”

“I must have rubbed against something,” he said nervously, his hands flexing wildly.

“What something would that be? The inside of the victim's head?” Brass asked. “They tend to leak when you slam a slab of cast iron against them.”

“Shut up!”

“So, what's the matter? You got some sort of pancake fetish?” Brass asked. “You ruined the griddle, but then took it with you, but then you tried to hide it under the wagon.”

“She wouldn't give it back!” Harris yelled suddenly, his shoulders shaking as he started to cry. “That griddle is mine.”

“Are you claiming Professor Adams stole it?” Sofia asked in disbelief.

“She may have well! It wasn't hers. It belonged to my great-granny. She promised it to me! Then when she died, it was sold at an auction. I was the only one bidding on it, then that woman,” he literally spat, “used a bot to place a last-second bid to steal it. I tried to get it back from that woman. I was reasonable, I offered to buy it. But she said she was going to use it in her lecture. When I told her she had to give it back to me, she told me to grow up.”

“I don't understand,” Grissom said after a moment. “You ruined it by using it as a murder weapon. You broke the hinge and that's not something easily fixed on cast iron.”

“Who wanted to use it to cook with? It was mine! Great-granny said I could have it.”

“Well, you're really going to get it now. You're under arrest for the murder of Professor Stacy Adams. Officers,” Brass said, watching as Harris was handcuffed and led away.

“That is not a well man,” Paulie stated firmly. “Who would kill someone for a hunka metal? And I do this for a livin'.”

Brass let out a little chuckle. "Yeah, Paulie, you're the epitome of sanity around here."

“I once had a case where a little girl murdered her eighty-year-old neighbor to steal the lady's cat,” Grissom remembered, giving Paulie what-can-you-do roll of his shoulders.

“Now that is one mean kid.”

“Sociopath is a better word,” Grissom told him.

Paulie shook his head sadly for a minute. “You guys done with me? I gotta get out of this outfit.”

“Sure, Paulie. We already got your statement. We know how to contact you if we have any more questions,” Brass told him. Rolling his eyes, he went to help the police officers get the last of the statements.

Sara and Grissom finished collecting their evidence, and had a large selection of bagged items ready when she started looking around. “Didn't you want to talk to Paulie about the wagon?”

“The convention goes on all weekend. We can come back tomorrow.”

“ _We_ can,” she repeated, smirking. “You're the fan of westerns.”

“I was thinking we could grab something to eat when we were done.”

“Sounds like a date,” she said, grabbing an armful of evidence bags.

* * *

Brass waved vaguely as the pair headed back to the lab, realizing he hadn't seen Sofia recently. Once outside the front entrance, he considered calling her, but he remembered it was her father's birthday. Thinking she'd gone to catch up with her parents, he started to head home.

He froze when he spotted her carrying a stack of books and talking to a six-foot-three man with curly, red hair. With her free hand, Sofia was making a whip cracking motion, and Paulie – now dressed quite sharply in tailored pants and a sweater – was doubled over laughing. His eyes widened when Paulie took the books and then opened a car door for her, by all appearances on their way to a date.

“Only in Vegas,” he sighed.

**The End**


End file.
